


Threadbare

by gaslightgallows (hearts_blood)



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Clothing, Conversations, Established Relationship, F/M, Introspection, Secret Santa, Tuxedos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 04:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13069614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_blood/pseuds/gaslightgallows
Summary: Twenty years of Policemen and Firemen’s Balls and charity functions and theatre nights and stiffly formal dinners thrown by his late (former) mother-in-law. He should be used to it by now.Jack Robinson knows he looks good in a tux, but he does not like wearing them.





	Threadbare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quiltingmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiltingmom/gifts).



> A Secret Santa gift for quiltingmom! ♥ Thank you to meldanya for helping with the concept. 
> 
> If you’re on Tumblr, please consider following me at [gaslightgallows.tumblr.com](http://gaslightgallows.tumblr.com) for more fic, reblogs about writing, and lots of randomness. Thank you for reading and especially for commenting. Comments are love. ♥

Jack Robinson adjusted his black tie a little more, and looked over his reflection in the long hotel mirror. As always when he dressed for a formal occasion, it felt as though he was looking into the eyes of a stranger. 

It shouldn’t be that unfamiliar, not by that point in his life. He’d learned early on how to wear a tuxedo properly, all for Rosie and his old money in-laws, because he loved her and was grateful for George Sanderson’s patronage, and he wanted to make them proud.

But that was twenty years ago. Twenty years of Policemen and Firemen’s Balls and charity functions and theatre nights and stiffly formal dinners thrown by his late (former) mother-in-law. He should be used to it by now. 

He _should_ be. 

A pair of finely-kept hands slid over his shoulder, startling him out of his sulk. “Well, that doesn’t happen very often,” purred a rich, warmly amused voice. “Penny for your thoughts, Jack? Since they’re so interesting, they let me to sneak up on you.”

Jack turned around and put off answering for a few moments so that he could admire Phryne’s outfit. It was simple and elegant, the sleeveless sage-green dress she had worn the very first time they’d danced, and it was one of his absolute favorites. A trifle out of fashion now, perhaps, but easily brought up to current standards of mode and formality by the talents of Mrs. Collins and the seemingly endless supply of grand accessories and accoutrements that Phryne loved to acquire. 

And if Jack were permitted a tiny bit of smugness, he liked to think that she wore it for him. 

“You look ravishing,” he smiled. “As always.” 

Phryne was not fooled by his diversionary compliment, but she allowed it, for the chance to run her palms over the shining black broadcloth of his jacket. “And you, Jack, look utterly delicious in black tie. As always.” She leaned in to kiss him.

Her lips were warm and waxy and she smelled of expensive perfume and powder, scents that had once seemed so foreign. Now smells of home. He took her gently by the waist (so as not to crease the fabric of her dress) and drew her closer, prolonging the soft, hungry kiss as long as he could. 

When they finally had to part for breath, Jack leaned his forehead against Phryne’s, while she used his handkerchief to wipe away her lipstick from his mouth. “I hate these dinners,” he murmured. 

Her smile was sympathetic. “I know, darling, but it _is_ Christmas, and at least it’s in a good cause. And at least this time it’s being held at an hotel, rather than at Aunt Prudence’s.” 

That was a definite bonus. “It’s so stupid,” he muttered, “but even after all this time, whenever I visit your aunt outside of an official capacity, I feel like I should be entering through the kitchens.”

“I remember. You actually did that, the first few times you visited me.” Phryne perched on the edge of the massive bed that formed the focal point of their hotel bedroom. “But Aunt Prudence knows you now. She even, dare I say it, _approves_ of you. Far more than she does me, I might add.”

Jack gave her a ghost of a smile. “Well. That’s something.”

“Jack. Tell me.”

He shrugged awkwardly. “It’s... it still doesn’t feel right, Phryne. Any of it. Me being your escort at these sorts of functions. Me being at these functions at all, as anything other than discreet security. I feel so horribly out of place. Oh, I can make small talk with the baronets and be amiable to the wealthy old ladies, I know how to use all the cutlery and eat all the food, and I’ve gotten very good at not laughing when you insist on joining the gentlemen for port. But beyond that?” He raised his hands and then let them fall. “It’s all a lie, Phryne. A sham.”

“An illusion,” she corrected.

“A poor one.” Jack went back to the mirror to tug at his collar and cuff links. “Putting on these clothes, pretending that I belong in this world of wealth and indolence... It feels... tight. It doesn’t fit. Like it’s someone else’s threadbare clothes that I got out of a charity bin. It’s someone else’s life. It _itches_. I’m not a member of the nobility, Phryne, no matter how much everyone says I look the part. I’m just a boy from Richmond.”

“You say that like I was born with strawberry leaves on my head and ermine round my shoulders.” He frowned at her reflection, which was regarding him with a wryly fond sort of face. “I’m just a girl from Collingwood myself, remember.”

“With aristocratic antecedents, however distant.”

“Oh, Jack, really. Go back far enough and we’ve _all_ got aristocratic antecedents somewhere in the family tree. You’re probably from a distaff branch of some seventeenth century Scottish laird.” 

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “What gave it away? The fondness for whiskey? Or do I yet retain a whiff of the peat bogs?”

Phryne rolled her eyes at him and rose to turn him back to face her. “My point, my dear inspector, is that neither of us were born to wear these clothes. You worked your way into honest middle-class respectability, and I was catapulted into wealth and luxury by no effort of my own. Neither of us belong here.”

“You do.”

“No, I just pretend that I do. And I pretend very well.” She batted his hands away and restored order to the collar and cuffs he had worried at. “You have to remember your acting days, Jack. Don’t bother about the costume or whether you’ve been cast in the right part. Just move across the stage as though you’re supposed to be there, and no one will question you.”

“Admirable advice, Miss Fisher. But how do I stop questioning myself?”

She smiled and drew a finger down the sharp line of his jaw. “By remembering that it’s all a stage, Jack, and that when the performance is done, you can take the clothes off.” Phryne let her fingertip linger a little on the corner of his mouth. “That’s my favourite part.”


End file.
